The Physician's Tale

by Ann Benson

  The town itself was only a short distance from the monastery. Guillaume could not keep his eyes off the lights spilling out of the tavern’s windows, and when Alejandro tried to guide him inside the stable, the child resisted.

  “We must stay hidden,” he said to the boy.

  “But, Grand-père, there is music—can we listen, please?”

  “No, Guillaume, we must make sure that no one sees us.”

  “But just for a while; no one will know us there.”

  He was right, of course; there was little real risk in going to the tavern. It might, in truth, be more noteworthy if they did not go there. The only soldiers about were those in their own party. Half remained en garde in full regalia; the other half, save one, went to the tavern as soon as they were at liberty. The slight-looking soldier who stayed behind seemed ill at ease among the others and slipped quietly into the stables as the rest departed. Alejandro thought to invite the fellow to come along but decided, based on the soldier’s purposeful retreat, against doing so.

  But if this was a papal guard among comrades, why was he staying back when there might be jollity ahead?

  This moment of suspicion slipped away when he saw the look of curiosity on Guillaume’s face. He was not surprised to see the excitement; the long ride from Avignon to Paris in 1348 had been a huge part of his own education in the ways of the world, and he would never forget one bit of it—even those horrors that were better forgotten. The little boy in his care had never been outside the Avignon ghetto, except for his birth and the hard journey Alejandro had made from Paris to Avignon with the infant strapped to his chest. What sort of education was that for the grandchild of the king of England?

  “All right,” he said to Guillaume. “We shall have some music, but you must promise to be careful not to speak to strangers.”

  He held Guillaume behind him at the tavern door until he could look around; seeing nothing remarkable, he let the boy come forward. Guillaume’s eyes, wide as saucers, darted hungrily from one fascination to the next, taking it all in. The women in the tavern wore clothing that would have been considered shameful among the Jewesses of the ghetto for its scantiness and bright color. They sported laces and jewels, outrageous hats, and pointed shoes.

  “Why do the women all have such tall foreheads?” Guillaume asked.

  “They pluck back their hair because the high forehead is considered a sign of elegance.”

  Guillaume shrugged. “I don’t see why,” he said. “They look odd to me.”

  “Myself as well,” his grandfather admitted.

  The jocund behavior of the French bourgeoisie—singing, dancing, brawling, the enthusiastic causerie—all held the child rapt.

  “Are you hungry?” Alejandro asked him.

  “Oh, yes!”

  “Then let us sup.” He motioned to the landlord with one hand. When the man came, he asked for bread and cheese and, for himself, a draught of ale.

  “You shall have your first taste of ale tonight, Guillaume.”

  Guillaume took the flask eagerly but made a face when the bitter liquid touched his tongue.

  “The boy is right sensible in his taste.”

  Alejandro turned toward the voice and saw an elderly man with white hair and gray whiskers. When the old gent grinned, his face crinkled with a thousand lines, but his eyes were clear and blue and full of vitality.

  “Don’t like the ale in this place much myself,” he said. “But drink it I do, for the water is not to be drunk, not for love nor money.”

  Alejandro’s interest was instantly piqued. “And why is that, good sir?”

  The man looked around, as if he might be overheard. “Well,” he said when he was satisfied that no one was within distance, “it makes a man sick to drink it. But the landlord won’t admit that his well is bad.”

  The physician moved closer, ignoring the elderly man’s rancid breath. “What signs of sickness does one have after drinking this water?”

  The man peered into his eyes and said, “You have the sound of a Spaniard.”

  After all his years in exile, he’d thought all traces of his origin had been erased. But this man had deciphered him, after just a few sentences.

  “I have lived in many places,” he said cautiously, “among them Spain. I suppose my tongue took a liking to the sound of the language. But pray, continue—sick, how?”

  “Those who drink from it all develop la grippe,” the old man said. “They cannot contain themselves, one end or the other, if you understand my meaning.” His eyes fairly twinkled with the unsavory revelation.

  “I do, indeed,” the physician said. “But surely such a malady cannot be entirely attributed to the water?”

  “And why not? Strangers who come to town even for a visit of short duration leave clutching their sides. They rush off into the woods to relieve themselves, and we never see them again.”

  “But what of those who dwell here? Surely they are not continuously afflicted.”

  “Ah! Untouched,” the old man said. “’Tis curious, indeed.”

  “Yourself?”

  “Untouched.” He grinned mischievously. “But then, I do not drink the water, as I told you. Only the ale.” He lifted his flagon in salute and then drank it down in one long pull. He set the flagon down and wiped the froth from his mouth with one sleeve. “And where might ye be coming from?”

  “Montpellier,” Alejandro answered.

  “Grand—”

  The physician shushed the boy with one stern look.

  “And your destination?”

  “Strasbourg,” he answered.

  This time Guillaume said nothing about the lie Alejandro told.

  “A long journey,” the old man said.

  “Indeed. And a strenuous one.”

  “Well, I bid you Godspeed,” the old man said. He started to rise but gave one last tipsy caution. “Remember, do not drink from the well.” He leaned closer. “The Jews have poisoned it, they say.”

  And with that he departed, leaving Alejandro speechless and angry.

  They ate their bread and cheese quickly and returned to the stables. The small soldier who had stayed behind was the only one there, already abed, with only his hooded head visible above the blanket that he’d pulled tightly around him. Alejandro glanced briefly at the boots standing straight upright between the soldier’s pallet and the next, toes and heels aligned, curiously neat.

  Entirely too neat—it was as if this soldier had created a little wall between himself and the comrade who would lay beside him.

  And why had this soldier not spoken? The man seemed to shrink back when words were exchanged among his fellows.

  He settled the boy in the straw, but Guillaume was fidgety; he tossed and turned in a way that would never have happened in his own bed in Avignon. Finally, Alejandro spoke to him.

  “What is the cause of your agitation, Guillaume?”

  The boy sat up on one elbow. “Are we really going to that other place you said?”

  Instantly, Alejandro put a finger to his pursed lips. “Shhh,” he said in a whisper. He glanced over his shoulder at the small soldier, who seemed already to be asleep. Nevertheless, he lowered his voice so no one else could hear.

  “No, child, we are going to Paris.”

  The boy took his grandfather’s signal and whispered as well.

  “Then why did you tell that man something else?”

  “Because we must be very careful not to be discovered.”

  “But why?”

  The physician did not answer immediately. “In time, you shall know why,” he said. “But for now you must be satisfied to wonder. It is a hard task for a boy, I know. Will you try?”

  “Yes, Grand-père,” came the reply, but there was disappointment in the boy’s voice.

  “Patience, Guillaume, all will be well.”

  He wished he could believe that himself.

  The door to the ladies’ quarters was opened by Isabella’s ancient nurse. Her fa
ce, framed as it was by the stiff white headpiece, was a map of wrinkles.

  “What do you want, boy?”

  “Ah, good Nurse, I beg you to reconsider your wordage. Lad is so much preferable to boy. It hints of impending manhood. Grant me at least that.”

  She looked him up and down with great misgivings. “As you wish, then. What do you want, lad?”

  “I would speak with the lady Kate, if that is permissible.”

  “At the moment, it is not. She is currently attending to the princess,” the nurse said.

  There was a tone of bitterness in her voice that was not lost on Geoffrey Chaucer. He had, in fact, expected to find her thus engaged. “And when do you think she might be done with said engrossing activity, if I may be so bold to ask?”

  “You may, but I cannot give you a direct answer. She will be done, I fear, when it pleases the princess for her to be done.”

  “Then might I leave a note for her?”

  Nurse held out her hand. He handed her the paper he had written in anticipation of this outcome.

  “I will await her reply, when it is convenient, with much eagerness.”

  Nurse tucked the paper into one of her billowing sleeves, wishing to God that she had the audacity to read it.

  Kate stood and watched with several other ladies of her sister’s household as the princess paraded out an army of dresses for comment. Her disgust swelled to near bursting as opinion after opinion was issued by Isabella’s attendants, but only after Isabella’s own thoughts on the garment were safely revealed by her enthusiasm or lack thereof. To a one, the ladies parroted back what Isabella herself seemed to think.

  One was too garish, another too bright, still another too subdued—not one among the dozens of dresses seemed to satisfy her. She pulled the last dress out of the chest brought by one of her tailors and held it up for everyone to see. It was long and simple, made of pale silk in the color of a rose that had been pressed between the pages of a book and allowed to dry, a soft and creamy shade of pink. There were ornate embroideries in the same color all around the hem and cuffs. Kate’s eyes were drawn to the beautiful handwork; she admired the skill it took to create such a treasure. Isabella took note of her interest, and, when she rejected the dress for herself, she tossed it to Kate.

  “Perhaps this will be your nuptial dress, since you seem to admire it so much.”

  Kate picked up the dress and folded it over one arm, smoothing the silk as she did so. “I have no plan to marry,” she said quietly.

  “Perhaps not,” Isabella said. “Our father will make those plans for you.”

  “With the same luck he’s had in making such arrangements for you, one hopes.”

  Twenty dainty hands rose up to ladies’ lips in perfect unison, but they failed to dim the faint chorus of snickers that followed Kate’s stinging remark. Isabella’s brow wrinkled, showing her age, as her anger grew.

  “I shall be sure to tell our father how you admire his diplomatic skills.”

  “He is no father of mine, but please, do tell the man! I cannot wait to hear his comment.”

  “His comment shall be made with a switch on your behind, were it up to me!” Isabella snarled. “Now, be a good little girl and try the dress. Let us all see if it suits you or not.”

  Kate stood still, with the dress draped over one arm.

  “Go on, sister. I command it.”

  She had refused to obey Isabella’s commands when she was first brought back to Windsor. Her stubbornness lasted only until her guards demonstrated its consequences. She was unable to use her left hand for nearly a month after they were through with her. And every time she exhibited more than passing resistance to the indignities they put her through, she was reminded of the vulnerability of her son. She dragged the dress along the floor as she went behind the curtain, causing a twitter among the other ladies. But when she emerged a few moments later to show the dress, a stunned hush came from the observers.

  “Well,” Isabella said finally, “it seems to suit you far better than it does myself.” She stood up and walked closer to Kate. “I am feeling exceedingly generous today. You shall have it for your wedding.”

  “I say again, sister,” Kate said, “I have no plans to marry.”

  “We shall see,” Isabella said. “Now, all of these carryings-on have made me late for an appointment with my jeweler. The poor man will be in a faint by now.” She picked up her skirts and walked briskly away, followed in step by a trail of young women, none of whom would look Kate in the eye as they passed.

  As soon as they were gone, Nurse came forward. She looked around the corner to see that the ladies were all out of hearing, then whispered to Kate, “There is a message for you, from the lad Chaucer.” She pulled it out of her sleeve and handed it over.

  Kate grabbed the paper and nearly tore it open.

  Fairest Lady Kate, may I call upon you in your quarters this evening? I wish to discuss those histories in which you had an interest. If it is agreeable, please send word to me through your nurse.

  What histories? The young man adored an intrigue, sometimes to a fault. She recalled the first words he had ever spoken to her, in Paris, in his hostage days.

  You might be a twin to my lord Lionel. He made this comment to her just before she and Guillaume Karle, at the time not yet her husband, tricked him into participating in Alejandro’s escape from de Chauliac, before their alliance had solidified. Remarkably, Chaucer did not seem to hold the deception against her. He had spoken to her many times since her arrival in Windsor, and though she often saw the young man staring at her, she wondered at those times if there was something more he wished to say.

  “Nurse, of what age is Master Chaucer?”

  “Of an age with yourself, I think, child,” Nurse said.

  She would always be a child in the old woman’s eyes. “And what of his family?”

  “Wine traders, I believe, from London.”

  “He is an interesting young man.”

  “Indeed, right brilliant, by the sound of his speech. He’ll go far in this world on that alone, mark my words.”

  “I believe you are right in that assessment, good Nurse. Please send word to Master Chaucer that I will gladly meet with him. He may come to my quarters, and we will speak on the balcony overlooking the chapel. My keepers will be able to see me, but our words will be private.”

  The traveling party stayed well back of the circle of stones and watched from the safety of the forest as a crowd of flagellants dressed only in loincloths whipped themselves and one another with willow switches. They danced in frenzied fashion around three stakes, each one set in the middle of a pile of twigs and branches. Strapped to each stake was one man; on each man’s jacket was the bright yellow circle that screamed JEW to any and all who saw it. The moaning of the captives was horrifying; Alejandro watched in shock as one of the flagellants came forward with a torch and lit all three pyres. Smoke came first, then flames, and before long the tongues of fire were licking at the legs of the captive Jews.

  We must stop them!

  But the captain of the escort would not interfere. I am duty-bound to see your safety was all he would say.

  Alejandro pulled an arrow out of his own quiver and nocked it into the bowstring. He aimed carefully, as Hernandez had taught him to do, and let the arrow fly. It struck one of the captives square in the chest. The man shuddered for an instant, then his head drooped down.

  The flagellants turned as one in the direction from which the arrow had come. Seeing the party in the forest, they raised their fists in anger and began running toward the travelers. Alejandro turned his horse and heeled him in the sides, but the animal’s hooves seemed mired in quicksand, and he could not run, and soon the flagellants were upon him, and—

  “Grand-père! What is wrong?”

  Alejandro sat up straight in the straw, his heart thumping wildly in his chest.

  “Grand-père, were you dreaming?”

  He rubbed his hand o
ver his face to be sure that he was indeed awake. “I was, child, I was.”

  “What did you dream? You were sorely disturbed!”

  “I cannot recall just now,” he lied. There was no reason to frighten the boy; the journey would find ways to do that without his help. “Perhaps I will remember later. It cannot have been a pleasant dream, so maybe God will be good enough to let me forget it.” He looked to one of the windows and saw the light streaming in. “It’s morning, anyway. We should be rising soon. No doubt Monsieur de Chauliac will want to depart as soon as possible.”

  He turned his head and saw the small, quiet soldier staring at him, but he looked away before Alejandro could decipher the expression.

  They washed in a cold-water basin brought by one of the grooms. The man had a sack of apples for the horses but shared them with Alejandro and the boy, who used them to break their fast. When de Chauliac emerged from the abbey, refreshed by his soft bed and resplendent in red, the entire party was waiting for him.

  The Frenchman cast a quick glance in Alejandro’s direction. When their eyes met, he gave his colleague a brief nod of recognition, which Alejandro returned discreetly. Then, to Alejandro’s surprise, the Frenchman cast a glance in the direction of the soldiers, focusing for a moment on the very same one who had stayed behind the night before.

  He suspects him as well!

  The banner rose under a dark and threatening sky, and the party assembled in proper order beneath it. The protection of God and the pope went before them. Alejandro could only hope it would be enough.

  Kate stood on the balcony outside the ladies’ quarters at Windsor. Below her was the chapel, its tiled roof not twenty feet down.